Lena stood by the window, watching as Galina Petrovna crossed the courtyard. Again. The third time this week. In her hands—a food container.
“Your mom’s coming.”
Igor was scrolling on his phone on the couch.
“So what.”
Two years earlier, when they’d finished building the house, her mother-in-law had told her in the kitchen, “You’re not young anymore. What if you can’t? Igor needs certainty.”
Lena had stayed silent back then. She was thirty. Second marriage. The first had fallen apart quickly, without children. With Igor, she wanted to do things right. First a house—then a baby. He had said it himself.
They built the house. There was no baby.
Lena went to the doctor. Did the tests. Everything was fine. She showed Igor.
“Now you go.”
“Why? I have kids from my first marriage.”
“That was ten years ago.”
“So what?”
“Go. Please.”
“Later.”
“Later” stretched into half a year. One day Lena couldn’t take it anymore.
“Do you even want a baby?”
“I do. Just not now.”
“When is ‘now’?”
“When I’m ready.”
Igor went out to the garage. Lena stayed alone in the house with three empty rooms.
She paid for his appointment. Igor agreed to go only after she threatened to leave for her mother’s. The results arrived a week later.
Lena read them first. She sat down at the table. The paper trembled in her hands. Problems. Serious, but treatable. Six months of treatment—and they could try.
Igor came home that evening, glanced at the sheet, and tossed it on the table.
“Happy now?”
“It says it can be treated.”
“Easy for you to say.”
He went out for a smoke. Lena sat there, staring at the test. Numbers, diagnosis, recommendations. It was all solvable. So why didn’t he want to?
She spoke to Igor’s aunt, Svetlana Ivanovna. The aunt promised to get them in with a good specialist.
“Igor, Aunt Svetla found a doctor.”
“After my business trip.”
He left for three weeks. Lena stayed alone. Her friend Olya invited her over—to show her daughter. Lena held the baby in her arms—warm, snuffling. Something clenched tight inside her.
“So when will it be your turn?”
“Soon,” Lena lied.
That evening she returned to the empty house, sat on the couch, and stayed there until it got dark.
Igor came back. Lena booked the doctor, paid for it. He started going. One week. Two. Three.
Then one evening he came into the kitchen, dropped his bag.
“That’s it. I’m not going anymore.”
“Where?”
“To the doctor. I’m sick of it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re humiliating me! You told everyone!”
“I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Mom knows everything.”
Behind him stood Galina Petrovna. No doorbell, as always. The food container in her hands. A smile on her face.
“Igoryok, I didn’t say a word,” she cooed. “But maybe Lena should get checked again. Doctors make mistakes.”
Lena looked at Igor.
“You’re quitting treatment?”
“I am.”
“Because of her?”
“No. It’s just… Mom’s against you having a baby like that. Through procedures. She says if it doesn’t happen naturally, then it’s not meant to be.”
Lena froze.
In that moment, she understood she would give birth without him.
She turned off the stove. Took off her apron. Walked out. Went upstairs to the bedroom. Closed the door.
Downstairs, Igor and his mother talked. Then they laughed.
Lena took out her phone and texted her mother: “Can I come to you?” The reply came: “Come.”
In the morning she packed her things. Igor was sleeping. She left quietly and drove away.
Her mother hugged her without a word. They sat in the kitchen.
“He quit treatment. His mother’s against it. He listens to her.”
“Leave him.”
“I’m thirty. Second marriage.”
“So?”
“I’m scared I won’t have time to have a baby.”
“Then you’ll have one without him. If he doesn’t want it—that’s his choice. But you don’t have to wait.”
Lena finished her water, hugged her mother, and drove back.
That evening Igor sat in front of the TV. Galina Petrovna was knitting in an armchair. Lena walked in and set down her bag.
“Igor, we need to talk.”
“Later. The match is on.”
“Now.”
He turned. Lena pulled out a folder with the test results, walked up to her mother-in-law, and placed it in front of her.
“Here. Igor’s results. If you want to know who can’t—read.”
Galina Petrovna went pale. Igor jumped up.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
“What I should’ve done a year ago.”
Lena headed for the door. Igor caught up with her in the hallway.
“Stop! Where are you going?!”
“Away from here.”
“Lena, don’t go! I’ll do the treatment, I swear!”
She stopped and looked him in the eyes.
“Too late. You chose your mother. Live with her.”
She walked out, slammed the door, got into her car, and drove away.
She rented an apartment on the outskirts. A one-bedroom on the fourth floor. The window looked out onto a playground.
Igor called every day. Lena didn’t pick up. He texted, “You’re upset over nothing,” then, “Let’s talk.” She didn’t answer.
Two weeks later he showed up. Knocked. Lena opened the door but didn’t let him in.
“Come home.”
“Why?”
“You’re my wife.”
“I was.”
“Lena, Mom didn’t mean any harm.”
“You picked her. Live with her.”
“I didn’t pick her! It’s just—if it doesn’t happen naturally… maybe we shouldn’t?”
“It would’ve happened. You just didn’t want to.”
“I’m ready now! Lena, come back—I’ll start treatment!”
“Too late.”
She closed the door. Igor stood there a moment, then left.
Three months passed. Lena got used to being alone. It got easier.
At work she met Dmitry—a doctor from the neighboring building. They ran into each other in the cafeteria, started talking. He didn’t pry. He was just… there.
A month later he invited her to a movie. Afterward they sat in a café.
“Why did you leave your husband?”
“He didn’t want treatment so we could have children.”
“And you wanted kids?”
“I do.”
Dmitry nodded. Walked her home. At the entrance he stopped.
“Can I kiss you?”
Lena nodded. He kissed her briefly and left.
Two more months went by—they were seeing each other regularly. Dmitry was simple. He didn’t make promises. He just showed up.
One evening in her kitchen he said:
“I want kids. Two—maybe three. I’m not rushing you. I just want you to know.”
He stayed the night.
Half a year after leaving Igor, she was late. Lena bought a test. Two lines.
She sat on the edge of the bathtub, heart pounding. Scared. She was thirty-one. A rented apartment. Dmitry was good—but they’d only been together four months. What if he got scared?
That evening he came over. She silently showed him the test.
Dmitry took her hand.
“I’m with you.”
Lena exhaled. He hugged her.
Two weeks later Igor called. For the first time in six months Lena answered.
“Lena, I need to talk.”
“Talk.”
“Mom got sick. She’s bad. I need support. Maybe you’ll come back? I understood everything. I’m ready for treatment. We’ll try. Please.”
Lena said nothing. She looked out the window.
“Igor, I’m pregnant.”
Silence. Then:
“By whom?”
“Not by your mother.”
She hung up. Blocked the number. Sat on the windowsill and laid a hand on her belly.
Lena gave birth at the end of spring. A boy—three point two kilos—he screamed loudly.
Dmitry was there. Holding her hand. Then he took his son and just looked at him in silence.
“Thank you,” he said.
The first months were hard. She didn’t sleep at night. The baby cried; she rocked him. Dmitry helped after his shifts.
One night she was sitting on the bathroom floor, the baby wailing, and she couldn’t calm him down. Dmitry came in, took the child, pressed him to his shoulder, and rocked him. The baby quieted.
“Go sleep. I’ve got him.”
Lena fell asleep in a minute.
Six months later they moved into a two-bedroom. Dmitry proposed they register the marriage. They did—without a celebration.
Lena’s mother came, hugged Dmitry.
“Thank you for being there.”
“I love them,” he said.
Two years passed. Their son talked and called Dmitry “Dad.”
One day Lena ran into Igor’s acquaintance, Natasha.
“Lena? I heard you had a baby. Congratulations.”
Natasha hesitated.
“You know… Igor ended up alone. His mom passed away. He sold the house. Lives in the city. Alone.”
Lena nodded.
“Such a shame. You built it all together…”
“Not a shame,” Lena said. “He chose his mother. I chose my son.”
She said goodbye and kept walking.
That evening Lena sat on the couch. Her son slept. Dmitry read beside her. Quiet.
She looked at her son. At Dmitry. Outside the window—snow was falling.
It had been scary then. When she left. When she was alone. When she saw the test.
But she made her choice.
And she gave birth.